


Will You Let Me Hold Your Heart?

by StarFusion617



Series: Will You Let Me Hold Your Heart? [1]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Crying, Dream gives him a hug, Dream is like the best person ever in this, Fluff, Fundy only has like one mention, George Needs a Hug, Hurt/Comfort, I’m sorry George I had to, Loner Dream, M/M, Ptsd??, Wolf hybrid Dream, abused George, caring Dream, real life minecraft, sad George, scared, there’s only one scene of abuse in the very beginning but please still be careful, villages
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:34:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27492010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarFusion617/pseuds/StarFusion617
Summary: George had lived with his abusive parents for over twenty years. He’s learned, somewhat, to deal with them. But one day, his father decides he’s had enough and exiles George from the house. George’s only option is to run into the nearby forest and try to survive, but night is falling and he doesn’t have many survival skills.Dream is a wolf-hybrid whose parents were the complete opposite of George’s. But the rest of his village doesn’t share their loving sentiments. Eventually, Dream decides to run away and start a new life for himself, away from the accusing stares and fearful glances.It’s inevitable that the two’s paths meet. The only question is whether each will accept the other’s help.
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Series: Will You Let Me Hold Your Heart? [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2009854
Comments: 4
Kudos: 248
Collections: DNF26





	1. My Heart’s Been Broken

**Author's Note:**

> I’m aware that George and Dream are both okay with their fans shipping them in fanfiction. But I don’t usually watch their livestreams, so I’m relying on you guys to tell me if they ever say otherwise. THIS WILL BE TAKEN DOWN IF I AM MADE AWARE OF EITHER SAYING THEY NO LONGER ACCEPT IT!
> 
> Additionally, this story has a scene of abuse at the beginning. Please read at your own risk!!

“You nasty little piece of trash, what is wrong with you?!”

George scrambled to throw his arms up to block the glass beer bottle swinging towards him, and the bottle smashed against his arm with a loud crash.

Glass shards flew everywhere, sprinkling down around George’s feet. His arm was bleeding, sliced in three different places, although none of them were deep. The young man sighed in relief before his father’s angry voice jolted through him.

“Why didn’t you bring home a decent paycheck? What the hell were you doing out there, picking flowers?!”

Ah, right. His father was mad because George’s current job as a village fletcher didn’t pay well, but George couldn’t get any higher-paying jobs. The blacksmith already had an apprentice, the cleric’s studies were too advanced for him to start learning so late, and the farmers got paid even less than George did.

“I-I’m sorry, I’ll do better next time, please, just let me—“

He was cut off by the violent shattering of another beer bottle. His dad had thrown one at him, but it had hit the side of the couch George was standing in front of. Even so, even more glass now littered the floor under his feet, and George knew if he moved his bare feet would pay the price.

“I’ve already given you too many chances! Your mother left me and I’ve had to raise you alone. I thought you would grow out of this stupidity and worthlessness, but I guess I was wrong,” his father growled.

George struggled to stifle a whimper at the ominous words and resisted the urge to take a step backwards, knowing it would only get his foot shredded.

“Get out.”

“Wh-what?” George stammered, staring in paralyzed fear at his father’s murderous face.

“I said, GET OUT!”

George hesitated, trying to quickly judge the distance from where he was standing to the edge of the glass circle surrounding him.

“YOU PATHETIC WASTE OF SPACE! GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY HOUSE!”

George flinched hard and took a flying leap over the glass-littered floor, barely landing safely on the other side and making a break for the door.

As he snatched up his backpack, flung open their heavy wooden door, and bolted outside, he heard yet another bottle shatter against the doorframe behind him. George covered his head with his arms and ran desperately towards the woods, noting the dying sun slowly sinking towards the horizon with a shiver.

He might not survive the night.

———

George laid against an oak tree’s sturdy trunk, balanced on a thick branch several feet above the ground.

He had ran straight for the forest as soon as he had escaped his parents’ house in the village, frantically chopping trees down with his only possession—a wooden axe.

Now he sat in the biggest tree he could find, accompanied only by his axe resting comfortingly across his lap and his backpack, now full of wood, hooked on a smaller branch next to him.

Hopefully, by staying off the ground he would be able to avoid the zombies prowling the dark forest floor, and with any luck spiders and skeletons wouldn’t notice him. With a sigh, George tightened his grip on his axe and resigned himself to a long night of waiting, searching the horizon for the morning sun.

———

George somehow managed not to fall asleep during the night, vigilantly scanning the darkness around him and keeping his axe close, but nothing disturbed him.

Zombies moaned and spiders hissed from the depths of the oak forest, but George never saw a hint of the monsters.

Now the first rays of sunlight were peaking over the treetops in the distance, so George pulled his backpack on and used a vine he’d found hanging from a tree earlier to strap his axe to his pack.

Then he dropped as silently as he could down the tree, keeping alert for skeleton bones rattling or zombie flesh squelching in the shadows.

When he reached the forest floor, George squinted in the direction of the sun, which happened to be the opposite direction he’d come from. The village was back towards the west, where the sun would set.

Perfect, he could put some more distance in between him and that house of nightmares while he searched for supplies.

George waited until the sun was high enough to flood the forest with light, banishing the shadows and significantly decreasing the chances of monsters hiding under the trees, before he set off to the east.

As he walked, he made a mental list of what he’d need to survive another night out here in the wilderness.

He’d need some sort of shelter, but he was good with wood because of his job as a fletcher and could build a small house fairly easily.

He’d need food, which meant he’d either have to find and kill animals or plant and grow crops. He would probably come across some animals soon, killing them would be the problem. George had no idea how to use a weapon, much less how to kill something.

He’d also need water, which was proving to be a bigger problem than he’d first thought. He’d been walking for an hour or so now and hadn’t found a river, and he doubted there were any ponds here when the trees were so dense.

But on top of everything, his biggest problem was going to be defending himself. He knew how to craft, especially with wood, but he’d never even swung a pickaxe before. He didn’t know how to smelt ores or shape the metal into tools, and he definitely didn’t know how to make and wield a sword.

George shuddered despite the warm sunlight on his face, uncertainty beginning to creep in for the first time. He hadn’t had time to worry about surviving long-term when he’d rushed out of the house last night, only able to think about surviving the night. But now he was faced with possible isolation in the wilderness with virtually no survival skills, and fear was starting to send icy tendrils crawling up his spine.

George shook his head, trying to snap himself out of it and focus on the present moment. He knew what he needed to do, so he’d just have to find a way to do it.

———

It was four more hours of walking before George found animals. He’d finally exited the oak forest barely half an hour ago, and come into a plains. Now, as the grassy hills stretched before him, he spotted several herds of cows and a few flocks of sheep, idly munching on the grass at their feet.

George stopped for a moment, taking some wood out of his backpack and using a sharp rock to carve it into a sort of flat square he could use as a makeshift crafting bench. It wasn’t anywhere near as nice as the expertly carved, intricately decorated benches back at the village, but it gave him a surface to work on. It would work.

He pulled some more wood out, laying out a few pieces and using the rock to chip away at them until they resembled long, thin sticks. He contemplated making a wooden sword for a minute, but then he figured he might need that sword for more than just slaughtering some animals.

So he shaped some more wood into the head of a pickaxe and tied all the pieces together with more vines.

Scraping away the top layer of dirt underneath him, George went to work swinging the crude pickaxe awkwardly at the exposed stone, chipping away little pieces with each hit. He worked for the better part of an hour, eventually managing to gather a sizable amount of stone shards.

He dumped the pile of stone into his backpack and used the pickaxe to help him climb out of the little hole he’d made in the ground, returning to his crafting bench and setting up the layout for a stone sword.

He used another piece of vine to attach the poorly sharpened stone blade to the wooden handle, and stuffed the crafting table into his backpack along with the rest of the stone and the few remaining pieces of wood from earlier.

Now for some food. George hadn’t eaten since yesterday at lunch time, and his stomach growled menacingly at him as he locked his gaze on the nearest sheep.

Slowly, he stalked forward, keeping the stone sword held in front of him, but as he neared the animal he realized it wasn’t interested in him. The sheep continued to eat the grass, hardly even glancing up at George as he got close. Well. Now he might actually feel bad for killing the thing.

George walked up to the sheep, took a deep breath, and raised his sword.

The sheep kept eating.

George squeezed his eyes shut, tightening his grip on the handle.

The sheep kept eating.

George clenched his teeth and looked away as he brought the sword down in a clumsy arc. He heard more than felt the moment it made contact, the sheep’s sudden panicked bleating cutting through his mind.

George opened his eyes and stared, horrified, at the injured sheep. The once fluffy white animal lay on the grass, bleeding heavily from a huge gash in its side.

George gasped and quickly stabbed the sword’s point straight through the sheep’s neck, cutting off its cries and effectively ending its life. The sheep now laid still, blood pouring onto the grass from both wounds.

George grimaced and promised himself to go straight for the neck next time, but he wiped the blade off on the grass and used the sword to slice the sheep’s wool away from its body. Once he had made a pile of fluffy, pristine white wool, George tucked it into his backpack and began the gruesome task of gutting the sheep.

Although George had never killed an animal before, every kid in the village studied the basics in survival skills, so he’d seen diagrams and read books on how to cut and cook wild game.

As he pulled the last of the edible meat from the sheep carcass, George realized he didn’t have a way to cook the food, and he really didn’t want to eat it raw.

Remembering the blacksmith’s fiery furnaces, he wondered if those could be used to cook food. Well, worth a try.

George pulled the last of his stone from his backpack and arranged it into a sort of tiny stone tent-like structure, piling three walls together and leaving one side open.

He put a piece of wood and a log inside, and in a few minutes he had a charred piece of charcoal. Deciding not to question the world’s strange laws, he just popped the charcoal back in along with his raw meat, glancing at the sun while he impatiently waited for it to simmer.

The sun was starting to sink in the sky, so George only cooked two pieces of meat and shoved everything else back into his overflowing backpack.

Quickly biting into the tender mutton, he started running away from the setting sun, following the same path he’d set himself on before. He knew from reading books in the village that plains were a bad place to be in the middle of the night. Lots of monsters prowled there, populating the flat ground.

George was running through the trees of a spruce forest when the sun’s last rays disappeared below the horizon. He quickly climbed into the nearest tree and struggled to find a thick enough branch to hold his weight. Unlike oak trees, spruce trees were tall and slender, not ideal for hiding in.

But it was all he had, so George found two branches that were growing close together and laid across them, hoping they’d hold.

They did.

George closed his weary eyes and leaned his head back against the trunk, deciding to give in to sleep tonight. Tomorrow, if he was still alive, he’d have to build some sort of shelter.

———

George woke to the blinding light of the sun striking across his face. He blinked rapidly and swung himself down from his perch, surprised to land in snow.

Looking around, he realized that in the distance towards the plains, rain clouds hung in the sky, but here the same clouds dropped light, swirling flakes of snow instead of water.

The snow had gotten fairly deep while he’d been asleep, and now it was much more difficult to walk. George shook snow out of his hair and shivered, wishing his village weren’t in a warm oak forest. He wasn’t dressed for the cold.

Crossing his arms in an attempt to keep warm, George started trekking through the snow, his shoes filling with snow and numbing his toes. Soon all he could feel was the cold, reaching all the way into his bones and freezing his fingers and nose.

George rubbed his hands together, trying to warm them up, noting that the snow had stopped falling. He was going uphill though, and he knew the cold would only get worse the farther he went up the mountain. Spruce forests only really appeared in or near the mountains, so he knew he was heading to higher ground by continuing traveling in the forest.

But he couldn’t turn around. He couldn’t make himself go back, even if he wasn’t planning on returning all the way to the village. Turning back now held meaning, and he had to avoid it at all costs.

———

It took another three hours for George to stumble.

He hadn’t been able to feel his fingers and toes for a long time, and he was getting more and more tired the longer he walked. He kept it up because he knew that if he stopped he would freeze, but eventually he wouldn’t be able to keep going.

His legs were getting weaker, more effort put into each step. Finally, after struggling forwards another foot or two, his knees buckled and he fell to the snow.

Cold seeped into his face, but he couldn’t feel it. Not when everything was already numb.

George knew he should get up and keep walking, find a tree to sit under at the very least, but his muscles had stopped listening. He couldn’t sit up no matter how hard he tried.

He laid there a long time, face buried in the snow and backpack growing heavier across his back. The wind whistled through the branches above him, and he let the sound soothe him.

He didn’t want to die, but at least he wouldn’t be killed at his parents’ hands, like he’d feared so much as a child.

George exhaled, relaxing into the snow, and let the cold numb his whole body. Snowflakes fell peacefully from the sky, and the wind still whistled through the trees.

Silence reigned.


	2. And Now It’s Yours For The Taking

Dream jogged lightly through the forest, weaving around dark tree trunks and leaping over the bigger snow drifts. He was on his way back to the nearby plains to gather more food, because he lived at the top of the mountain where animals rarely survived.

He had once tried to grow a crop farm, but the cold had killed off all the young plants as soon as they’d sprouted, so now he relied on making the trip down to the plains every few weeks to get his food.

Dream had lived in the area for a while now, so he knew the surrounding biomes and what each offered him for survival.

He jumped over a fallen log, the top slick with ice, and landed in a fluffy pile of snow on the other side. It had snowed last night and well into the morning, leaving drifts everywhere. The snow was thick under his boots and crunched with each step.

As he made his way closer to the bottom of the mountain, Dream slowed. He needed to conserve his energy for the trip back up.

Dream walked through a clearing, admiring the snowflakes still falling as they were blown from the tree branches, laden with snow. The little flakes glittered and sparkled in the late morning sun as they drifted down, and Dream cupped one in his gloved hand to watch it melt.

Shaking his head at himself, he shook the water off his glove and resumed his walk down towards the plains, beginning to recognize the last stretch of spruce forest near the bottom of the mountain. It would still be a few hours of walking, but Dream enjoyed walks. They helped him think.

As he lifted his boots high off the ground to keep them from dragging through the snow, one iron toe caught against something under the top layer of snow.

Confused because spruce forests never had big roots or broken branches littered on the floor, Dream reached down and scooped a few handfuls of snow away from his boot.

He gasped as, just barely hidden beneath the freshest layer of snow, lay a human arm.

Dream frantically shoveled more snow aside, glad he’d brought his tools with him. He managed to uncover the body fairly quickly, recognizing it as a young man.

The man was lying face-down in the snow, a backpack still strapped across his back. Attached to the pack was a wooden axe.

Dream quickly turned the man over and pressed his fingers against the stranger’s neck, feeling for a pulse.

He sighed in relief when he found one, faint but steady.

Dream lifted the young man up into a sitting position, pulling him onto his back and hooking his hands under the stranger’s knees.

He abandoned his previous mission for food and instead turned to head as fast as he could back up the mountain, determined to save whoever this poor man was.

———

As soon as Dream made it to his front door, he shoved it open and brought the man upstairs to his bedroom. Since he’d built the house for himself, he didn’t have a spare room, but saving this stranger’s life was more important than finding him a separate place to stay. Dream would figure that out later.

The first thing he did was pull off the man’s backpack and set it aside, covering the stranger in multiple layers of blankets. The torches flickering gently along the walls lent the house some warmth, but Dream knew this man would need more than that if he were to survive.

Dream then laid a cloth warmed near his fireplace across the man’s forehead, making sure it was sitting comfortably above the stranger’s eyes.

Dream walked to the doorway, glancing concernedly back at his new company, before he left to go downstairs and cook the warmest stew he could with what little ingredients he had left.

———

When George awoke, his head felt foggy, and his stomach was grumbling again. He noticed immediately that he wasn’t lying in the snow anymore, but it took him a moment to figure out that the softness around him was blankets.

As he blinked open his eyes and gazed around, he realized that he was laying in a bed in a strange house, clearly in the person’s bedroom. Tools were hung on the walls, and various pieces of armor were scattered around the room. A pair of fluffy leather boots leaned against the wall near the door, and a closet to George’s right probably held clothes.

Before George could inspect the place any more, the door creaked and then opened, revealing a man about his age, maybe a little younger.

The man startled when he saw that George was awake, but George quickly grew uneasy when he noticed that the man’s face was covered by a blank white mask. Two dots and a curve in the form of a smiley face stared back at George, who sank further into the bed. Even worse, two fluffy wolf ears stood up from the man’s head. George had heard stories of human-animal hybrids, and none of them ended well.

“Oh, you’re awake. I was really worried there for a second. You’ve been asleep for a long time,” the man said suddenly, dragging George from his thoughts.

“Where am I?” George asked, watching warily as the man closed the bedroom door behind him and took a few steps closer to the bed.

“You’re in my house. I live alone, don’t worry, there’s no one else here. I found you laying in the snow in the middle of the spruce forest,” the man answered, setting a bowl of something steaming on the nightstand next to the bed.

George flinched at the clunk of wood on wood, and the man seemed to hesitate for a second. His ears flicked up, focusing on George.

 _Oh no, he noticed, he’s gonna think I’m weak,_ George thought quickly, struggling to maintain his composure. _If he thinks I’m weak, he’s more likely to target me._

Then he realized the man had saved him from freezing to death in the forest. _Still, I can’t trust him. I don’t know what he wants from me._

The man spoke again, making George snap to attention.

“I’m glad you’re feeling better. I made some mushroom stew, but if you don’t like mushrooms I can make something else.”

The man gestured to the bowl on the nightstand, and George resisted the urge to look over. As soon as he looked away, it would give the man an opportunity to attack.

The mask stared back at him for a few seconds before the man cleared his throat awkwardly, ears twitching uncertainly.

“Well I’ll leave you to it then, unless you need anything else?”

It took George a minute to realize he was being asked a question, but he couldn’t answer with fear paralyzing every muscle. He just stared silently back at the masked man, willing him to leave so George could escape.

“...Alright then, I’ll come back later and maybe we can talk about how you got stranded outside,” the man said finally, quickly opening the bedroom door and disappearing out into the hallway. The door closed again with a soft click, and George let out a breath.

He was safe for now, but he needed to find a way out of here.

George ignored the bowl of stew, even though he didn’t have a problem with mushrooms. He didn’t trust any food or drink made my a stranger, so he left the bowl untouched and instead got out of the bed to look around.

Upon further inspection, the closet did indeed hold clothes, the most prominent of which being a dull yellow hoodie with a white circle in the middle. In the circle there was a black smiley face, and George was reminded of the man’s mask.

The nightstand itself didn’t have anything on it except the bowl of stew, and there was no other furniture in the room, so George opened the single drawer and sifted through it.

He paused when he found a pile of four pictures, old and creased but clearly well-loved.

The top photo showed a smiling young boy with dirty blonde hair and bright green eyes. The boy’s canine teeth were sharp, and his head was adorned with two fluffy wolf ears. George realized the child was probably the same man he’d just seen. He wondered who took the picture.

The second was a photo of a woman, eyes tired but loving. Her blonde hair matched the child’s, and her eyes were the same shade of green. She was holding a baby, smiling wearily at the camera.

The third photo was of a man, glasses perched on his nose as he focused on writing something. He was seated at a desk, holding a quill, and was clearly unaware of the photo being taken. His hair was brown, and George couldn’t see the color of his eyes.

The fourth photo was a family picture of the woman, man, and child. In this photo, the child was older and looked to be around eleven. His ears were bigger and he was tall already. The man and woman, whom George assumed to be the child’s parents, stood on either side. Neither had ears, but George realized the child had a tail. The fluffy end was poking out from between his leg and the woman’s. All three people were smiling, standing in front of a traditional village house.

George swallowed and shoved away the memories of his own house. He didn’t want to remember the beatings or the yelling, or his father’s angry face looming over him.

Furiously wiping away tears he suddenly noticed were dripping down his cheeks, George set the pictures back into the drawer and shoved it closed.

Maybe this man wasn’t that bad. George could at least wait a few days and see before running away. He knew he’d likely die out in the forest anyway.

He just had to keep it together and show the man none of his weakness.

Easy, right?

———

George was sitting on the bed, staring blankly at the wall, when the man returned.

The sound of the door opening jolted George out of his thoughts, and he turned to face the door with no small amount of anxiety.

The man’s masked face peered around the doorframe, presumably checking that George was awake before coming the rest of the way in.

“Hello,” he said simply, and George felt some of the tension leave his shoulders. But only some.

“H-hi...” he stammered, struggling to get the words to come. His body still felt frozen with fear.

The man tilted his head, ears twitching.

“You didn’t eat,” he observed, heading over to the nightstand and picking up the bowl.

George was silent, eyes trained somewhere past the man’s head. He held still, forcing himself not to hold his breath.

He was done for. The man was going to be so mad that George hadn’t eaten his cooking.

“...That’s okay.”

George flinched and then desperately tried to hide it. _What?_

“Can you tell me your name?” the man asked, setting the bowl back down and looking back at George. His ears were perked, listening intently.

George froze. “...G-George...,” he finally answered, fumbling with the words. His own name felt foreign in his mouth.

“...Well, George, my name is Dream. I want you to know something before I do anything else,” the man said slowly. His tone was soft and soothing, and George struggled with the instinct to trust it.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Dream said gently. His ears hadn’t moved.

George stared at the man’s shoulder, unable to look at his face yet unable to look away. _Why is he doing this? Does he actually care?_ Then George shoved the thought aside. _Of course not. Be careful, don’t trust him._

The man—Dream—hadn’t said anything else, and he hadn’t moved either. George got the sense he was waiting, but George couldn’t say anything even if he tried.

Dream sighed. “George, I get the feeling you’ve been through some stuff. I know you won’t trust me right away, but I want you to know I’m only here to help you. Take all the time you need.”

George watched as the door closed, Dream having taken the now-cold bowl of stew with him. He let out a long breath, staring at the door for a long moment.

Why did it feel like he should trust Dream?

———

Over the next week, George and Dream fell into a sort of routine.

Dream would bring George three meals a day, and George never left the bedroom. He hardly even left the bed, preferring to hide in the relative safety of the warm sheets.

Dream always tried to talk, asking a simple question or two, and sometimes he would tell George about something interesting that had happened that day, but George never responded. Dream kept his distance, staying near the door or against the wall instead of beside the bed.

Eventually, after seven days of George refusing to say anything, he had begun to trust Dream against his will.

The man had been nothing but nice to him, and George now knew that this was Dream’s room, so he had no idea where the other man had been sleeping every night.

George had started eating a few days into his stay, unable to ignore the pangs in his stomach any longer. Once he didn’t get sick or die from eating the first meal, he deemed it safe to continue.

Dream could have done something to George many times over, but he never even lifted a hand in George’s direction. George was struggling not to give in to his instincts to trust the man.

Finally, on the eighth night, he couldn’t hold out any longer.

It was almost dinner time, and the sun was going down. Shadows were beginning to lengthen outside the window, and George took a deep breath. Dream would be coming with food soon.

Right on time, a few minutes later the door creaked open. Dream entered, holding a plate with seared porkchop and sliced carrots, which looked soft from cooking.

Dream set the plate down on the nightstand, and just like every night, George grabbed it and hesitantly stabbed a carrot with the fork. He brought it to his mouth as Dream settled into the chair he’d put in the corner a few days ago.

“I hope you like carrots. Although, I guess you’ve eaten everything I’ve given you. Is there anything you don’t like?”

Clearly not expecting an answer, Dream continued, “Either way, it’s a lot easier on me. I’ve lived alone for a long time now, and I’m not very picky.”

Curiosity about Dream’s backstory had been burning inside George since his second day here, and now he told himself that Dream had had enough opportunities to hurt George. George could at least make some conversation. He’d already stayed in the man’s bedroom for a week.

“Why do you live alone?” George asked, his voice wobbly and barely audible. Dream heard.

His ears shot up, and George could instantly see the effect his words had had on Dream. The man’s whole posture had straightened.

“...Sorry, I guess I just didn’t expect you to say anything,” he managed to say when silence reigned for slightly too long.

George flinched. Dream quickly backtracked.

“No, no, it’s fine, I like it. You can talk, I was hoping you would eventually. I’m happy you feel comfortable enough.”

George tried not to read into Dream’s words and instead took them as they were.

“I live alone because...well, have you looked in the nightstand drawer?” Dream asked, his voice suddenly a lot less confident.

George nodded, guilt creeping into his stomach. But Dream only nodded back.

“Those are my parents, and the child is me. I used to live in a village. My dad was a cleric and my mom was a fletcher.”

“I was a fletcher...” George blurted, then immediately flinched backwards.

Dream reached out as if to touch him, but he stopped himself and wrung his hands together instead.

“That’s really cool, George, you must be really good with wood,” he said.

George only nodded, unwilling to admit his lack of actual crafting skills.

“Anyway, I was the only child in the village who was a hybrid, and most people don’t really...like...hybrids. Especially wolves,” Dream continued. “My parents were always loving, but the rest of the village hated me. Eventually, I had to move out from my parents’ place, and I started to get attacked. I had to be really careful which routes I took, and I never went out at night.”

George frowned in sympathy and listened carefully as Dream’s voice faltered.

“Finally, I decided to leave.” His voice broke on the last word, and George waited patiently while Dream struggled to compose himself.

“So I traveled for a bit, which wasn’t hard because I’d made sure to learn as much as possible while I was still at the village. I quickly figured out the best ways to survive and made a life for myself out here. But eventually, I wanted to settle down somewhere. I was tired of the traveling. So I found the most remote location I could get to and built a house over the course of a few days. I’ve lived here ever since,” Dream finished, his voice growing steadier as he went.

“...How long have you lived here for?” George asked carefully, watching Dream for a reaction. But Dream only tilted his head in thought.

“Well, I left the village when I was twelve, and I built the house half a year later, and I’m twenty-one now. So about eight and a half years,” he answered, thinking out loud.

George was secretly impressed. Here was a man who knew what he was doing. Maybe he could help George.

_No, stop thinking like that. Of course he won’t help you. You’re useless._

But Dream hadn’t minded that George had talked. He hadn’t minded when George stayed in his bedroom for a week. He apparently hadn’t minded carrying George all the way up the mountain to nurse him back to health.

_Maybe I’ve finally found someone who will care._

George knew he’d already stayed in Dream’s house long enough without giving the man a reason for being there. He locked his fingers together, digging his nails into his palms in a nervous habit.

“...I-I used to l-live in a v-village too...” he managed, the words coming easier as he kept going. He watched Dream the whole time, but the wolf-hybrid only pricked his ears in gentle interest. His posture remained relaxed, and George got the feeling that his face would be open and encouraging if George could see it.

George took a deep breath and continued, “B-but two days before you f-found me, I was exiled from my parents’ house.”

Dream inhaled sharply, and George nearly flinched before he realized it was only surprise.

“My parents weren’t...nice...” George whispered, his voice starting to fail him. Tears welled up in his eyes as he was forced to relive several terrible moments in that house. He blinked in an attempt to keep them at bay.

“What do you mean, ‘weren’t nice?’” Dream asked gently, like he knew George wasn’t going to be able to elaborate on his own.

“...My father would...” George trailed off, struggling to keep his breathing under control. Dream reached forward slowly and placed a soft hand on George’s arm. George watched, expecting to be terrified, but the contact suddenly felt soothing. Dream’s hand was warm, and the gentle weight was comforting.

“He would hit me a lot, and he’d say a bunch of terrible things,” George said, a shred of confidence returning. “My mother did nothing to help me, and finally my father decided to...”

Distantly George noticed that Dream’s hand was now rubbing comfortingly up and down his arm, but his thoughts were too scattered to register it.

“...t-throw me o-out of the h-house...” George struggled to stop the tears from falling, but they’d already started and he no longer had control. His breathing picked up as he realized he was now vulnerable in front of Dream, who he still didn’t actually know wouldn’t hurt him.

“...And t-then I ran i-into the f-forest and tried to s-survive on m-my own, a-and now I’m h-here—“ George’s voice failed on the last word, and he pressed his hands against his eyes in an attempt to stem the flow of tears. His palms were bleeding from how hard he’d dug his nails in, and he knew he’d just put himself in a very bad position.

“...I’m so sorry, George,” Dream said softly, and George felt his hands gently cover George’s and pull them away from his face. Dream’s thumbs traced the small, crescent-shaped cuts, and George let him. Something about it made it feel like Dream cared.

Then Dream’s hands were moving again, this time to George’s shoulders, and George found himself pulled into the gentlest hug he’d ever felt—not that he’d had many hugs. Dream wasn’t locking him in, allowing George a way to escape, but George didn’t protest.

For some reason, as Dream realized this and curled his arms around George’s back, it felt safe.

As Dream sat next to George on the bed and pulled him into a comforting hug, running one hand through his hair and whispering calming words, it felt like he was loved.

They stayed that way for a long time.

Eventually, George fell asleep in Dream’s arms. Dream shifted so he was laying beside George, and kept him in a protective embrace for the rest of the night.

Dream didn’t have his mask on in the morning. George didn’t comment, but he gave a small smile, and that was all Dream needed.


	3. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m going to start a discord server. I’m planning on using it for giving you guys updates, but I’m hoping it could also become a pretty cool community. If you want to talk, chill, or hang out, welcome!
> 
> https://discord.gg/R3T73Nttzk

Over the next few weeks, Dream, with George’s help, built a second bedroom for George to stay in. George got to help decorate it, and as soon as it was finished Dream knew the house would feel like it was missing something if George ever left.

George slowly opened up about his lack of survival skills and his unstable upbringing, so Dream taught him how to craft, smelt, mine, and fight. He also taught him how to cook.

Dream found himself explaining more about how people tended to hate hybrids, and that Dream had once met another hybrid on his travels. The boy had been a fox-hybrid named Fundy, and he was just as cunning as he was funny.

George helped Dream realize that being a hybrid shouldn’t make anyone less than anyone else, and Dream helped George gain confidence and learn to trust again.

Together, they laughed and cried and talked and went on adventures. But most of all, they loved.

———

“Hey George?” Dream asked, pausing in cooking their dinner of steak and potatoes.

“Yeah?” George answered from near the kitchen table, where he was crafting them new iron armor.

Dream swallowed. Let go of the pan handle. Took a deep breath.

_You can do it. Just three words._

“I...”

George looked up, sensing something was wrong. He waited patiently, but Dream agonizing over whatever he was about to say was making George nervous.

“I...I love you...” Dream whispered, his gaze on the sizzling steak. Suddenly he gained courage. “And I know you probably don’t feel the same way, but I’ve been thinking about it for so long, and I just can’t keep it—“

“Dream. It’s okay. I love you too,” George cut in, smiling gently at Dream.

Dream took in another breath and smiled back, and George came over to stand in front of him.

“I love you too, Dream,” he whispered, before standing on his toes.

Dream met him halfway. Their lips met with a jolt of electricity, and it was bliss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that’s it for the main bulk of the story, but I could add a few little one shots of stuff. I have a few ideas, like a mining trip, Dream protecting George from an attacker in the woods (protective wolf-Dream yay), George carving his first real crafting table, or Dream teaching George sword-fighting. If any of these interest you guys more than the others, I’ll write those first, but you can also request stuff in the comments. I’m pretty open to writing little one-shots about anything that fits with this story, so if there’s anything you really want to see, I’ll write it!

**Author's Note:**

> I have an Instagram under the same name as here, starfusion617. Originally it was just an art account, but recently I’ve started adding dteam drawings, so I figured it’s relevant.
> 
> https://www.instagram.com/starfusion617/


End file.
